


Eye of the Storm

by Synchron



Series: Eye of the Storm [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet, Canon-Typical Violence, Eva is a witch in this sorry not sorry, F/M, Gen, Light Angst, Self Indulgence to the Max, Timey-Wimey, but Sparda is still MIA, heavily inspired by chapter 25 of VoV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27038650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: A child runs, alone, the very beginnings of a storm that will span decades and affect multitudes before it subsides.Until a different storm comes; red lightning among isolated black clouds.
Relationships: Vergil & Original Female Character, Vergil (Devil May Cry)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Eye of the Storm [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973407
Comments: 17
Kudos: 34





	1. Déjà vu

**Author's Note:**

> So some of you might remember that I had a fic exactly like this one posted before. This is the same premise, but a slightly rewritten, fleshed out and expanded on a little more. I said I wasn't going to do this until a much later date, but this AU has legitimately swept me off my feet, I have ELOPED with this AU and I am stuck here in my soft Punchy/Vergil hell, I am so sorry. 😭😭 I have a few more little tidbits I'd like to write for this AU, but my soul refused to let me until I properly "completed" the OG, so here I am. 😔✊
> 
> For those of you who don't follow my rampant screeching (and that's 100% fair), this is an AU for my OC, Myra Stathis, whom I lovingly call Punchy, where she winds up back in time and saves a kid Vergil from his own fate. It was only supposed to be a one shot, because I Care Him, but then I started thinking about the dynamic of Punchy and Vergil in this AU, and now I'm in hell. 🤣
> 
> This is maybe EVEN MORE self indulgent than the original version of this one shot was, but I hope you can get some enjoyment out of it!! 💖

**Déjà vu** ⁽ⁿᵒᵘⁿ⁾

> 1) A: the illusion of remembering scenes and events when experienced for the first time

> B: **A feeling that one has seen or heard something before**

> 2) Something overly or unpleasantly familiar

What's going on.

What's going on?

What'sgoingonwhat'sgoingon _what'sgoingon_?!

A lone child, clutching a sword far too tall for him to possibly wield, ducks and weaves through molten steel and melting rubber, seeking refuge in the twisted remnants of a playground that had only moments ago been his quiet bastion. The air is thick with fumes, smoke and melted plastic that sticks to his clothes and lingers on his skin. Every breath that he takes, ragged, he sucks more of it in, and his head spins and spins as more of the world he knows frays around him, replaced by flames that outline an assortment of scurrying silhouettes, too tall to be other children, too bent to be adults, too disfigured to even be human. Their padded feet scamper around the clearing, dragging their rusted weapons in the dirt behind them, as raspy voices gurgle words belonging to a language Vergil has never heard before, yet somehow knows isn't borne of the human tongue - he can't be sure those noises are capable of being replicated by people at all. He trembles, shakes, gasps for breath after choppy, rapid breath, tasting copper and rust on the wind, but doesn't cry. Refuses to. No matter how fearful he is of these creatures with their sunken eyes and rotting stench; the smell alone, enough to make his tiny stomach turn in on itself.

The stories that their father had told them, in soft candlelight before bed, of demon kings and an entire realm that lay just out of reach, just out of sight of human knowledge; of the betrayal of a blood pact between brothers bound not by blood, but by a lifelong oath; of a daring escape to another world, and a seething promise of revenge, were only ever supposed to be that.

Just stories.

But this inferno, this tempest of hellfire that erupted so suddenly around him, torching the modest playground around him to cinders and ash, feels far too real on his skin. In his lungs. Singing vocal chords with stinging winds and suffocating heat. The creatures that had attacked him are like nothing he's ever seen, not even in the books he loves so dearly; skeletal, held together only by thin scraps of meat and wielding weapons with far more strength than their frail arms would suggest.

Demons.

But how?

Why?

They aren't supposed to be real! Just stories! Made up for the benefit of allaying overactive imaginations, all told by a gentle man who possesses one of his very own. But that isn't the problem, Vergil slowly realises as a chill washes over him, sinking right down to his very bones. No, the real problem lies in how much of what Sparda told them, what he and Dante so firmly believed were made up tales, was the _truth_. Because these creatures– these _demons_ aren't here on a whim. They had paid no mind to the other children who fled within the arms of their parents, hunting not for sport, but with a clear sense of purpose.

And they _are_ hunting. Slowly, methodically. Searching every inch of the park now doused in flames whose very essence spews something sinister into the air. Searching for _him_. Because he is a Son of Sparda. Because he carries within him, the blood of a traitor.

 _Because he simply exists_.

Vergil clamps both hands, already clammy with a cold sweat despite the sweltering heat, over his mouth, holding his breath as a set of heavy footsteps sound behind him. Yamato lies in his lap, pulsing with a soft light, a shield that obscures and cloaks his unique scent - it's all she can do when the boy she had been sworn to is too young and inexperienced to wield her - but he is still easily distinguishable by sight. If they see him, there is nothing that her vast prowess can do, and this is something both sword and master understand. The footfalls come to a stop right on the other side of the drooping plastic barrier that Vergil hides behind, once a vibrant and soothing green, now discoloured and warped from heat. The demon sniffs at the air, garbles something in that malevolent tongue, sounding distinctly victorious and raising the hairs on the back of Vergil's neck. He holds remarkably well, but the final straw is when a long shadow falls over his hiding spot, blanketing him in what feels like a tangible burden, and with a frightened hiccup of a gasp, Vergil staggers to his feet, stumbles, finds his footing, and tries to run again, even though his body aches and his legs feel like lead.

He tumbles, _again_ , slips on a toy another child left behind in their haste, melted beyond recognition. He goes down, hits the ground hard enough to bounce, the breath forcefully expelled from his lungs, and there Vergil lies, winded and disoriented, sucking in more dust and ash than he does air. The demons crowd around his prone body, each lifting their weapons one by one with a sense of coordination that betrays their gaping, stupefied expressions, and together, they chant a name that isn't supposed to belong to a real being:

"For Lord Mundus."

It's strange that, at the very last second, with his back against a wall and overtaken by fear so pure that he could puke, the person he wishes to see the most, the name that Vergil cries in his moment of weakness is not his mother's. Or even his father's.

" _Dante_ –!"

As if in answer to his cried plea, and to a promise made to a former master, Yamato responds. It wrenches itself from Vergil's shaking hands with a mind and will of its own, and with a sound like cracking glass, it begins to change. To crystallise. Red shards grow in uneven spokes until it becomes a fractal and chaotic mass of crimson, glittering in the firelight. A far cry from its usual elegance, but maybe both sword and master are equally desperate today.

It spins on its axis in the air, projecting a bubble, a clear dome that settles over its master, muting some of the chaos that runs rampant just outside of it, reducing the din to muffled sounds of sloughing water. Both claws and steel alike bounce off this shield in dancing sparks, providing the boy within it a moment of respite to catch his breath. But in the end, Yamato shielding him is merely delaying the inevitable. Yamato is nothing when untethered, unconnected, unbonded to its wielder.

Like it's new master, Yamato is nothing when alone, and the barrier won't last forever.

Vergil continues to lie in the dirt, curling in on himself, hoping in vain that if he tries hard enough, he'll disappear, or wake up in his bed in a cold sweat to a confused and sleepy, but concerned twin looking down at him. But he is eight years old now, a well read boy who is far more grounded than the fanciful tales he reads about in the bay window. Too young to fight, but old enough to know what the bitter sting of reality feels like. It's dirt under his nails. It's torn skin on his knees. Ash in his lungs. A pounding, erratic heart.

Scraping, screeching steel and voices croaking his name.

And.. something else too?

New sounds slowly join the chaos outside his little bubble. They're hard to distinguish over the frustrated cries of demons, but he thinks he can make out a series of cracks. Something dense that's being split and torn and bashed. Not wood, or plastic, or even steel. But bone. The ground under him slowly begins to rumble too, and even with his head covered by his arms, slipping between the cracks, a searing flash of red bleeds through. One after another, the demons burst in a shower of sand that rains down against the shield, falling and pooling onto the ground. And then everything falls silent and still. But Vergil waits. For a sound. For a sign. Anything to indicate that he's safe, because he doesn't know what he'll do if he looks, peeks, hopeful, just past his arms and sees he's still surrounded.

The sign comes to him as a gush of wind as Yamato's barrier cracks, in just one place at first, and then many as Yamato finally relents. Hairline cracks converge, forming a delicate webbing before it collapses in on itself, falling in broken shards, dissipating harmlessly by the time they meet the floor, and finally, Vergil unclenches and unfurls. He scans the area with blurry vision, fogged over by a haze of tears and smoke, until his eyes land on a pair of greaves, not at all knightly like he'd thought at a first glance, but pointy, taloned, and distinctly animalistic. His gaze travels up, past blood splattered pants, past a pair of jagged gauntlets, beyond a bright and hideously gaudy jacket, until he locks eyes with a scowling woman. Thin arcs of red lightning still crackle and dance across her body before they all unite and return to the steel gauntlets she wears on her hands, sinking back into embossed lines.

Vergil opens his mouth to croak something, an ugly and incomprehensible string of words meant to express things like "who are you", "why are you here?", and "did you save me?" all at once. But she cuts him off, opening with an annoyed click of her tongue.

"You're real shit at hide and seek, you know that?" The woman speaks in a harsh voice, staring down her freckled nose at him, and yet her condescension doesn't bother him. Doesn't even register.

Because he isn't alone.  
  


* * *

  
When Myra woke up to a city that was at once familiar and dream-like, she was alone. The last thing she remembered was being deep underground, a hollow cavity carved out beneath Red Grave itself that served as a retreat for all things that need not be seen by those with just hearts; a haven of depravity built by those below the law, and frequented by those above it. The most recent addition was… ah yes, the labs and the Colosseum. The same one that Myra was adamant in burning to the ground not out of any moral conflict, but borne of loyalty to a man murdered and a position usurped. _So_ adamant, she even turned toward the only two allies she had left in the city for aid, one of which she butted heads with on the regular:

The brothers of Devil May Cry.

The sheer scale of the technology at work deep down in that claustrophobic space was something she wasn't counting on however. Nor was she expecting to see hybrids bearing temporal abilities. But in ushering everybody out, in ensuring every last scrap of data and information about stupid fucking Ascension would never fall into the wrong hands again, she must have startled one of the patients - instinct and the imperative to survive overruling rationale - and before the voices in her headset could ask her what was going on, she was somewhere else entirely.

She tore the headset right off, threw it away when she realised it wasn't of any use anymore - the only thing she could hear through it was static, distorted by pitching frequencies as it searched in vain for its paired channel. The people on the other end of it were gone.

Gone? Or not born yet?

She had no idea how far into the past she was, simply that the Red Grave she was standing in now was at least two or so decades before her own time; the buildings and architecture looked far too antiquated to have belonged to even the more derelict and desolate parts of the city she knew. It all seemed too small. The roads too cramped. Everything felt archaic somehow. Sparse. Underdeveloped.

Not to mention she stuck out like a sore thumb, dressed in casual wear that barely belonged even back in her own time.

But what _was_ familiar were the flames that spewed forth from cracked asphalt as the earth's crust itself seemed to split open, releasing upon the city a horde of creatures she feels like she's seen before, but, just like her new surroundings, also seemed primitive. Like a prior version, unevolved and unrefined. The fire and the chaos reminded her of the night the Qliphoth sprung forth, but when she turned her eyes towards the horizon, there was no great tree in the distance, swaying softly to and fro. Just wave after wave of demons.

That suited her just fine. She was in a bad mood anyway, and so she followed their trail of destruction with the intent of leaving her own behind - that is, indeed, still in line with what she'd set out to do.

And that was how she ended up in a park, going against the grain of fleeing civilians, and spotting amongst the fray, an infuriatingly familiar head of swept back grey hair.

The eye of this storm.  
  


* * *

  
He doesn't remember passing out, nor does he know how long he was out for, but when Vergil does stir, his sense of smell is the first to return. The acrid aroma of smoke and brimstone is still thick in the air, denser and more potent, burning his nose, and, when he opens his eyes, stinging those as well. Underneath the bright jacket the woman had draped over him, Vergil finds he's still clinging to Yamato, clutching it to his chest as if all along, he's been the one protecting _it_ rather than the opposite being true. It's a scrap of familiarity in a city he no longer recognises, because where the sky was once clear, ash now drifts down from above like an impure snow, the horizon burns, and though it's indistinct, he can _feel_ the presence of creatures that don't belong in this world. Like ants crawling in every direction on his skin, but etched somewhere deep inside of him instead; an itch that writhes and feels _alive_. He still can't really grasp what had happened back in the park; one minute the sky was clear and blue, and the only things he had to worry about in his mundane life were his meddling brother who couldn't seem to sit still for even one afternoon, and how best to slip the unwanted beets from his dinner plate and onto Dante's without mother catching him. But the next, the sky itself had caught fire, and home - his brother, his mother and the notion of safety itself, always smelling of fresh bread and lilac somehow - had never seemed so hopelessly far. But that was when it appeared. Phasing into view right in front of him with a spinning flourish was the sword his father promised he could have when the time was right.

_"Let her aid you when you most need it, my son."_

Vergil never thought the day would come like this. Or this soon for that matter. Yamato is much longer than he is tall - taller than Vergil feels he will _ever_ be - and laden with a sense of duty that is still far too heavy for a child to possibly carry. But all the same, despite being in the hands of an inexperienced child, her power still locked within its sheath where it would remain until he possessed the power to draw her forth, she'd done her best to protect him; her own legacy coming into fruition. Vergil holds her close, eyelids drooping when he feels her radiate a gentle warmth against his cheek, and whispers a soft "thank you".

He sniffles after that, scrounging up a semblance of borrowed courage and sits up. Because now that his bearings have returned to him, he can hear someone else speaking too, in a low voice, almost a whisper. But rather than aimless, disjointed muttering to oneself, it sounds more like one half of a conversation, the other party mysteriously absent, save for a soft pulse of power and a high pitched droning, felt even by Vergil, between each statement. Yet he can't hear the words of this other presence. Can't seem to give them form, much less give them meaning - mere noises in his head that scrape at the inside of his skull:

▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

"I know."

▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

" _I know_. But he's just a kid, I can't leave him."

▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

"...can't be worse than the shitshow I'd be dealing with back home."

▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

"I'll have you."

▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

"It'll have to be."

"Who are you talking to?" Vergil finally asks, his voice croaky from a combination of smoke and fatigue.

The woman's body goes rigid, and the hand she'd been holding over her wrist, gingerly placed over one of her gauntlets, falls back to her side. The warm presence that was blanketing the area, soundless, yet echoing within his own mind like screeching glass, subsides. She half turns towards him, looking over her shoulder with a placid expression. "Nobody. We need to move."

Vergil doesn't answer, too busy trying to pull himself together, to shake off the lethargy now that he's been drained of the adrenaline that was keeping him going. The streets are quiet now, save for the distant howls of frustrated hellspawn. Their quarry is seemingly nowhere to be found - his scent, that peculiar tang of betrayal as described by their Lord Mundus, blankets the area, yet doesn't seem to have a source that can be traced and followed. Vergil himself doesn't really understand how they've remained undiscovered for so long, but he thinks it has something to do with the strange gauntlets and greaves the woman is wearing; he's certain now that they aren't man made, and that they obscure whatever trail he's been leaving with something larger and more potent, providing a quiet bubble of peace not unlike the one Yamato had given to him before.

He casts his gaze around the alley she dumped him in, a damp little space crammed between buildings too close together to be regulatory. The woman stands at the opening, peering out and keeping vigil while he recovers his strength, a rather warm gesture were it not for the fact the air in this alley smells stale and almost rotten. At that thought, Vergil shrinks further under her jacket, a gaudy combination of bright and mismatched colours of satin, both relieved and stubbornly defiant that she yet remains with him. He goes to remove it, to hand it back to her, bunch it up to throw at her head perhaps, as payback for how rude she was earlier, but that's when he notices that embroidered into the back of it is a great beast - an eagle? He isn't sure, but it's some sort of monstrous bird with a beak that splits open, spewing, strangely enough, red lightning. He wonders what this woman's connection to it is. If there is any at all. But what stands out to Vergil the most, is how he feels a faint familiarity with the design; wide wings and earthy brown feathers, even in spite of never having seen such a creature before. Come to think of it, he feels it with _her_ too. Just a sliver of a notion, really; a transient idea, barely formed and so fragile that if he thinks about it for too long, it loses its shape and bleeds into his other turbulent thoughts.

Vergil looks over at her; tall; a strong frame; maroon hair, cropped short; and a posture that suggests an inherent danger, but is decidedly different to what he felt from the demons. It's less unhinged, more controlled, but just as volatile. Though most of it is obscured by a cropped black shirt, he notices a series of black lines that adorn her shoulders, makes out the heads of two snakes that entwine at the nape of her neck, baring fangs toward an imaginary predator. A tattoo? Vergil frowns. This woman… she's far too rowdy, too brusque and unrefined to be somebody that his mother, and even father, in all his whimsical ways, would ever associate with. He's certain he's never seen her before in his life, not even in passing - he would remember somebody as ill-mannered as she.

So why does he feel as though the opposite is true?

"Where do you live, kid?"

Her voice cuts through his thoughts like paper.

"I…" Vergil sets his jaw, sits a little higher on the overturned trash can he's perched upon. "Mother told me never to give that sort of information to strangers."

An exasperated sigh. "For fuck's sake– this is why I hate kids." The woman, who has yet to give him her name, for which Vergil has _still_ neglected to ask, shoots him a look over her shoulder again. Nothing too harsh - the annoyance fades in a few seconds, dissolving into something more contemplative. "If I wanted to hurt you - or worse - I'd have left you for the demons." A beat. "And not given you my jacket either. It's fucking freezing."

"So they _are_ demons." Amidst the torrent of everything that's occurred in the last half hour, Vergil clings fiercely to this one aspect of conversation like it's a lifeline. It's the only thing he feels like he has any kind of control over at the moment; the only thing holding fraying nerves together. And so it is that a child finds solace in bravado. "Why do you know what they are? Why are they after me?"

Something in the woman's gaze wanders, just a little, and just for a moment. A brief hesitance that the sharpened curiosity of a child like Vergil doesn't miss, and that alone tips him off to the fact that she's lying, even before she replies: "Same reason they'd want anybody else - just passing time."

"You're a bad liar," he asserts. And yet, it's that very idea that makes him feel like he can trust her; after all, how bad of a person can someone be if they can't maintain a lie in the face of a child? Feeling braver, the scales perhaps tipping more in his favour, Vergil puffs his little chest out, trying to make himself seem larger than he really is. "My brother is better at it than you are, but he's never been able to fool me. So neither can you."

Turning her head to hide her expression behind a curtain of a deep maroon, the woman murmurs a curse under her breath that Vergil can still make out: "God, you're exactly the fucking same."

"Why do you keep doing that?"

She regards him in silence, the sheer absence of any kind of response perhaps intending to be intimidating, but children don't think the way adults do, and Vergil is not like any other child. He continues unabated, and largely without fear.

"You keep talking as if we've met before."

A quiet snort that almost sounds impressed. "Instead of interrogating me, don't you think you have other places you need to be?"

Vergil clutches at Yamato a little tighter, declares his indignance by hopping off his perch and tipping his chin up until it points toward her; the ruffled feathers of a mere fledgling. "Not until you tell me everything."

Brown eyes narrow, and one corner of her lips curls up into a half snarl. She pushes off of her lean against the wall and walks, slowly, each step charged with purpose, towards Vergil until she towers over him. Just like before, she stares down her nose at him, but unlike before, unlike those demons, he doesn't fear her. So Vergil holds fast, unflinching. Not even when she grabs him by the front of his collar and lifts him, effortlessly, right off his feet until their eyes are level, and a washed out green clashes with earthy brown. There's no explosive anger in the gesture, just a firm hold and a steady voice - a little deeper than what Vergi's heard from her so far. The sense of danger this woman exhibits is not grounded in her displays of violence, but rather in the calm between them: the _expectance_ of violence.

A twitch in Vergil's eyebrow is the only thing that betrays his exterior, but up close like this, he realises he's at least a little afraid of her. Just a little.

"I need you to listen real fuckin' carefully to what I'm about to say to you. You can put this brave little act on for as long as you want, beat me in your stupid little test of wills if you want, but every second you waste here builds toward a regret the whole fucking city will feel if you don't. Go. Home."

It's the stubborn streak in him, he supposes, the sheer determination to do the exact opposite of what an adult tells him to, but he feels an anger churn inside him at her lecture. She speaks nothing but ambiguous, obtuse nonsense; things that don't just make sense, and there is _nothing_ that Vergil dislikes more than when someone acts smarter than him. Even though he knows he's just a kid. Even though he _knows_ he's in over his head. Vergil swallows in an act of defiance, his hands moving, feeling blindly until he grips Yamato's handle in one hand. The movement catches the woman's eye, and she glances down at Vergil's hands for a fleeting few seconds, watching, considering. One eyebrow quirks, and then she looks back up to the boy she's still holding suspended in the air, as if daring him to do something. He doesn't - or can't, rather - but it comes as no surprise to either of them, each knowing the threat rang empty. Vergil however, does falter. He remains brazen and rebellious.

"Why is this so important to you?"

" _Me_?" She barks out a curt laugh, but it's tainted by something uncertain. For a split second, she's caught off guard, but her eyes harden again just as quickly. "That isn't it. This isn't about _me_. This is about who's waiting for you at home. This is about _her_."

The change in Vergil's demeanour is immediate, going from staunch and stubborn, to wide eyed and fear struck as the realisation sets in. If the demons came for _him_ , someone of Sparda's own flesh and blood, then what of his mother? Would they be at the house for Dante too?

It's now that Vergil struggles, wriggling and squirming to free himself from her grip. He'd beat at her hands, her arms, anywhere he could reach on her if he weren't holding Yamato, but seeing that he understands at last, just what's at stake - though perhaps not the full extent of it - she opens both her hands and drops him back onto his feet. He doesn't tuck his shirt back in, doesn't straighten himself out in the least. All Vergil does is clutch his sword to his chest again, shove past her, out into the open streets, and break into a run.

He doesn't bother to check if she's following him. Doesn't need to. Because a few short seconds later, she's jogging next to him.

In silence, they both move forward.  
  


* * *

  
The wards Eva had placed around the perimeter of their home crackle and wane under a constant onslaught. Just beyond the manor is a horde of lesser demons. A gift sent by Mundus to celebrate the birth of Sparda's progeny; eight years late it may be, but one does what one can from within a sealed prison. And as humans say, it is better late than never.

Individually, these demons don't pose a threat; they wander, aimless and blank until given specific tasks, and even then, don't put up much of a fight. But in sheer numbers, they are an overwhelming force that Eva's protective spells weren't designed to fend off. But if she can just make it past this wave, in that moment of respite between attacks, there should be enough time for her to go and find her other son. To find Vergil before the demons do, and bring him home. She just hopes, prays, _begs_ , that he's yet unharmed. Eva senses that Yamato is no longer in the manor - part of the reason why her defenses aren't holding as well as they could be - and though part of her is relieved he isn't entirely defenseless, another more vocal part of her reminds her in no uncertain terms that Vergil is still just a little boy, far too young to fight.

To _really_ fight.

Oh, why did this have to happen today?

Her heart sinks when she feels a looming presence in the distance, a low roar of thunder that makes the ground shake underneath her feet. Whatever it is that comes, she doesn't have the resources to stand against it. If it had come alone, perhaps, but alongside this swarm? She's already stretched too thin. Behind her, clinging to her leg, and half hidden beneath her shawl, Dante shakes too.

"Mother, that's happening?" For a child normally so boisterous and free, the tremor in Dante's voices makes Eva's heart ache.

She glances down, smiling, but in a way that makes Dante's eyes brim with tears when he sees it. It's almost as if she's given up. "You need to hide, Dante." At her fingertips, energy sparks, a thin wisp of smoke curling from them into the air - her wards are nearly at their limit. "And no matter what happens, you mustn't leave–"

Mother and son both flinch as a flash of lightning, blood red, but white hot, flashes outside the manor, casting long shadows that stretch ominously into their sanctuary. A roar of thunder follows almost immediately after, deep and sonorous as if it were alive itself. And then comes the hissing, the screeching, the rending of flesh and bursts of sand as demons are slain one after the other. Eva blinks, mind and heart racing. Just what is going on outside? In-fighting? Demons aren't known to do that. Certainly not the low tier, mass produced beasts that have been sent from the Underworld.

So who then? Sparda?

That isn't possible. It makes her soul ache deeply, fiercely, but it just isn't possible.

So Eva focuses, diverts just enough of her own energies from her protective wards and into her sentries instead, spectral sparrows and finches perched in trees and circling above. It takes a moment for the projected images in her mind to focus and sharpen, but in an eventual burst of colour, she can see a figure amongst the horde, darting between scythes, the impact of their blows charged by wreaths of red lightning. It's much smaller than she was expecting for such an oppressive aura, until she realises that dense presence isn't coming from the lone intruder specifically. Whatever it is, she can puzzle it out later, because behind this figure, trailing so close so as to be her shadow, is Vergil.

Her son.

_Her son._

The relief that washes over her is staggering and devastating, but in all the best of ways. Some of the pressure welling up inside her chest drains away, and as it goes, so does the remainder of her strength. Eva sinks to her knees right there on the floor of the entryway, her shawl and dress pooling onto the floor in a manner unfitting of the wife of the Legendary Dark Knight. Not that Eva was ever much for traditions anyway.

Dante is immediately in front of her when she goes down, his small hands on her shoulders, trying to glimpse his mother's expression to see if she's alright, and is met with a wistful smile and tears gathering in her eyes.

"He's alright…" she breathes, gathering one half of her entire life into her arms and squeezing until Dante is crying too, knowing now that the other half of it is safe. "He's alright…"  
  


* * *

  
Despite these being nothing but lower tier demons - fodder for her slaughterhouse - Myra is breathing hard by the time she's thinned the herd out, covered in a layer of sweat that makes ash and sand stick uncomfortably to her skin. She sinks low to the ground before pushing up off of it, launching herself at a hapless demon, winding round and around its body and throwing it off balance. She hooks one leg around its neck, and utilising the remainder of her momentum, slams it into the ground with a spray of dislodged dirt. Before it can reorient itself, she looms above it, draws her fist back, calls upon Grendel, and caves its face in with her fist. It gives easily, none of these sheep are really worthy of her time, and the demon's body bursts in an explosion of sand.

The area is quiet now, some of the peace returning with wind rustling through leaves. The fire in the city hasn't spread all the way out here yet, and given how things have been going, likely won't. For the first time since Myra arrived in this unfamiliar world, there is true tranquility.

Until from behind her, one final straggler, with its rusted sword raised above its head, gurgles an incomprehensible battle cry. With no time to escape, and perhaps no intent to, Myra waits for it to swing, her hand lifting to catch the downward arc of the blade with her hand. Such a mass produced weapon doesn't possess the cutting ability to shear through the demonic steel that Grendel is composed of, and so her firm grip is more than enough to stop the demon in its tracks, rooting it to the spot. It can neither flee nor attack now; a fly in a spider's web.

"Caught you." She's far too casual for someone in her position, and that's only because, in the next moment, a silver blade, its luminance almost blinding in the sunlight that streams down from above, pierces the chest of the demon above her. It gives one final waning groan before it too dissolves, the sand that composes its body catching on the wind and drifting away to reveal Vergil behind it, also sweaty and breathing hard through his nose, holding Yamato in both hands. He trembles, sways a little because the sword is too heavy for a boy his size to hold up and out for long, but he digs his heels into the dirt to steady himself, expression is set in a bout of fierce determination. An adamance to do something, _anything_ to help.

If Myra understood this, she makes no indication of it, letting herself sink to the ground and heaving a great sigh now that every last one of those ugly little fucks has been dealt with. "Good job." Her quietly murmured praise, begrudging as it is, still makes Vergil teem with pride. His hold on Yamato goes slack only after Myra relaxes, the tip of the blade dropping to land in upturned dirt with a soft _thunk_ , and then, and only _then_ he lets his nerves unravel again for the second time today. He leans his weight against his sword, breathing hard, letting it support him just as it has been doing today, and just as it always will from today forth. Sweat dots his forehead, even though they're far from the suffocating humidity and smoke of the city. He even considers shrugging out of her jacket, still somehow hung over his shoulders like a cape, but he's too tired even for that.

"Now get inside, and don't run off like that again. This probably won't be the last time he tries this."

Vergil composes himself with one final deep breath and goes to retrieve Yamato's sheath; he'd carelessly tossed it aside when he drew the blade in his haste, needing both hands to even properly lift it. When he finds it, Myra is already holding the sword in her hand. And understanding what she means to do, Vergil wordlessly hands the sheath to her - he's too small to return the blade into its sheath on his own. He doesn't remain idle however, eyes watchful in how she handles his weapon, learning even now, memorising the fluidity of her movements. He always was the more studious twin.

"It won't be the last time _who_ tries this?" He finally asks.

A quiet sigh, and then Myra is handing Yamato back to him, thrusting it handle first right into the center of his chest. "You'll know when the time comes."

He takes it, cradles it close again, voice a touch hopeful, almost unnoticeably shy. "Then will you be here when it does?"

She snorts, looks away. If she's honest with herself, she'd really rather not be, and true to herself, she tells him this: "Don't count on it."

Vergil huffs, not annoyed, but determined. "Then I'll be ready."

"Yeah." For once, she agrees with little resistance. "For everybody's sake, you'd better be." Myra hangs her head, looks down at the ground and swipes at her nose with the back of her hand. It comes away bloody - an inconvenience at best - and though Vergil is far from alarmed, his eyes do narrow.

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Will you stay?"

"Nope."

"Then will you at least come inside?"

She shoots him a pointed glance, bringing the rapid fire conversation to a screeching halt with a measured silence. "You're awfully nice all of a sudden, why the sudden change of tune?"

"Because she'll want to know what you did today."

The surprise that takes over Myra's features is fleeting - missable if one so much as blinked - before returning her default unreadable placidity. Of course...

 _She_. The elusive and mysterious Eva that Myra has only ever heard of in passing from Dante; their mother that was supposed to die on this very day; the one event that sets Vergil on his path, the way paved upon the corpses of thousands; the most tragic of butterfly effects. Myra supposes she should be happy that such a crisis was averted, but there's a rather pressing _numb_ that's beginning to overtake her instead. She waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. "And do what, meet your mother? Fuck no, I'll pass. I'm going home."

However the hell she's going to manage to do that.

Vergil's brow creases, and looking at him like that, she realises again that the person standing before her is still only a child; no one else would dare look at her the way he has been. And more and more often the longer he interacts with her, too, or so she's noticed - his bravery returning little by little. "Then at least tell me your name."

Averting her eyes, away from that clarity and curiosity that only the young hold, Myra mutters, a stark bitterness steeping in her voice, "No point in that either."

"...what do you mean–"

In the distance, Vergil hears the great doors of his home swing open. He presumes that must be his mother.

"There he is…!"

...and Dante too.

He looks over his shoulder at them, watches as Dante breaks into a run. The front of his shirt is still covered in dirt from their earlier scuffle - oh that feels like so long ago now - and oddly, Vergil feels a pang of guilt about that. But behind his younger twin, clutching handfuls of her dress to run toward him, is Eva, and Vergil feels his lower lip tremble. The only reason he doesn't start to cry is because he refuses to while in the presence of this woman.

He hardly even cries in front of Dante.

"It would seem you don't have a choice," Vergil begins, turning back toward her, "you're going to have to–"

The space in front of him, the space she was occupying only seconds ago, is now empty. He takes a step back in surprise, blinking, casting his eyes around the immediate area, thinking perhaps that she's simply gotten to her feet in that brief window he'd been turned away from her. Maybe if he's quick enough, he can still drag her back.

But nobody is around. Just gentle rustling of leaves and grass, and a wind that somehow feels colder than before.

She'd disappeared.  
  


* * *

  
𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐥, a soundless voice booms. Grendel hardly ever speaks, preferring to merely project his thoughts, but today, and only today, he reconsiders his stance. He doesn't have the luxury of deliberate ambiguity anymore; there's just too much at stake. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞. 𝐀 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥.

"I know."

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬.

" _I know_. But he's just a kid, I can't leave him."

𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐝. 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝. 𝐒𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞.

"...can't be worse than the shitshow I'd be dealing with back home."

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.

"I'll have you."

...𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡?

"It'll have to be."  
  


* * *

  
Her return was just as abrupt as her arrival; as jarring as it was succinct. The Red Grave that she appeared in was familiar, more so than the archaic one she watched burn, but still rather surreal. For one thing, the _entire_ city was intact, flourishing and thriving, bustling with people. With life. And at the center of it all is the esteemed Sparda Manor, home to an enigmatic, but charismatic family; Red Grave City's own local celebrities, pivotal in the city's development and protectors from all things demonic.

And all of _this_ , this peaceful and thriving city, was the result of an utter lack of one singular man's misguided pursuits; a storm that was not merely diverted or steered off course, but voided in its entirety, leaving clear skies of a soft and tranquil blue.

With no Qliphoth, there was no descent into chaos. No upturned chunks of the earth itself, no abandoned segments of a great city. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, would have the opportunity to live out their lives with their loved ones.

But on the other hand, on a smaller, much more personal scale, that also meant Myra would never meet Gilbert in person. She would have no Hulk waiting for her at home. There would be no induction into a family of crime that would shape her future, her morals, her views on loyalty...

What she _does_ have now is a much smaller, humbler abode, cramped but cozy, with noisy neighbours on all sides. She has Grendel too, at least. And to an extent, Vergil as well. Though this one seems far more soft spoken than the one she's used to in her own timeline - at least insofar as what she's gleaned from his occasional appearances on TV, usually pointedly ignoring the cameras while Dante basks in the attention. Tracking him down and getting a hold of him probably wouldn't be hard - perhaps as simple as walking up to the gates and having Grendel put on a little lightning show - but she finds the very idea of it frightens her. What would she say? What would _he_ say?

He probably wouldn't even remember her. Not in the way she'd be used to. And not in any way that she'd like either.

A series of rapid knocks at her door, three quick raps in succession, jostles Myra out of her thoughts, urging a string of muttered curses to fall from her mouth - getting caught up in the embrace of nostalgia is so unlike her. Not to mention an utter waste of energy.

She powers her cheap treadmill down, hops off it, and collects a towel from the back of her couch. As Myra makes her way to the front door, she dabs at the sweat collecting on her face and sweeps low to collect a water bottle, unscrewing it and taking one long swig. Then tucking it under her arm, she unbolts the myriad of locks she installed herself - never too safe around these parts of town - and pulls it open. "What do you wa–" her greeting falls away when she sees a familiar velvet coat on the other side, finely pressed, and lined with silk. Just as she remembers. Her bottle of water slips from her hold, and though its contents spill out onto the floor, she reacts more to the man outside than to the growing mess that seeps into old carpets.

Fight or flight kicks in, and she immediately goes to slam the door in the face of nostalgia itself. But the door catches on the man's shoe, shimmied between it and the doorjamb just in time.

"Hardly the three decade spanning reunion I was hoping for." Vergil says, voice flat, hiding an underlying bittersweet amusement. It's strange hearing those words in that voice of his, kind and gentle. Yet it sparks a conflict within her.

"Only been a few days for me." Myra replies evenly. Vergil hasn't done anything more than physically block her from closing the door on him, but she presses her weight against it all the same, just in case.

"And you didn't think to come find me?"

"And said what?" She presses her forehead against the door, soothingly cool on her skin. It helps to abate her nerves. God, why can he never seem to just leave her the fuck alone– "It's been years for you - I'm surprised you even remembered."

"Why would I forget the one who saved me? Who threw away a life she knew to change that of someone else?"

Quietly, cautiously: "...why do you know that?"

"You'll never know if you don't let me in."

And just like that, the anger comes back, conjuring alongside it, an ache that wells up within her. It has no origin, no source upon which pressure can be applied to stem the injury. It's the sort of pain she hates the most; the kind that can't be healed. The kind she felt when she stood staring down at the grave of Gilbert Howle. Is he still alive in this world? "Oh fuck off with that–" she presses more of her weight against the door, even tries to shove Vergil's shoe out of the way, but he is steadfast and stubborn. Softer and gentler this Vergil may be, at least this much is the same, and upon realising that, that wistful feeling overcomes her again, harder to reign in this time. It only goes away when she forcefully diverts her thoughts, funnelling them into squeezing the edge of the door until the wood creaks.

" _Please_." That single word is spoken with so much weight - years of an unseen burden barely restrained by one syllable, but that throws her off too. Words and feelings that are so out of place when coming out of his mouth and said in that voice, that hearing them, she feels more alone in this city than ever. "Back then, on that day, you spoke to me as if you knew who I was. I was too young, too foolish to realise it at the time, but the only way it would be possible is if you came from my future, which would mean I'd have survived without your intervention. Yet you still stayed to see me home. You were adamant in that one fact. For so many years, I wondered why with no possible way to receive an answer. But now I have the chance to find out why you felt you needed to change things. What did you give up for a man you clearly didn't even like–"

"Okay, stop. That's some wild fucking theorycrafting you're doing there, but you've got it wrong." There is a forceful edge to her voice as she says that, a coldness she never directed even to the other Vergil she knew. But even with the door physically blocking line of sight, with no way to gauge through body language, just what he's thinking, there's a noticeable shift in the air. A sort of softening, a relenting. Vergil doesn't answer, doesn't have a prepared quip like the other one would, hissed with venom through his teeth. This one simply waits patiently for an explanation. "I never planned on _changing_ anything. To think one person can control the future is naivete. Delusions of grandeur. It's just fucking stupid. I operate on a smaller scale. I move based on what's in front of me.

"And all I did was save a stupid kid and get him home because I don't make a habit out of leaving garbage on the floor - if something falls at my feet, the least I can do is pick it up. That's it."

A moment's deliberation, and then quietly, fondly: "You're still a terrible liar."

"Then take the hint." Her voice doesn't crack, but it _is_ strained Emphatic. The closest she'll ever be to pleading. To _begging_. "I don't have anything else to say." Myra doesn't understand just what it is that compels her to say it, but the words come before reason catches up with her; unfiltered and raw. "Not to you."

Silence ticks by, second after excruciating second, until the window of opportunity for Vergil to argue closes. Thick tension reaches a fever pitch, culminates in a slow but quiet sigh, and at last, Vergil slides his foot from the doorway in a silent gesture of concession. But before she can close the door on him physically, perhaps emotionally too, his fingers curl around the edge of it, holding it open with ease, even as she pushes against him. It's a reminder that if he so wished, that if he were raised just a little different, he could simply have forced his way inside at any moment, and short of calling upon Grendel, of perhaps decimating an entire block just like they used to, there is nothing Myra would be able to do to stop him.

The only reason he hasn't done so, the only thing that stayed Vergil's hand was the mere fact it would have gone against her wishes. Because _that_ is how he was raised.

Before Myra can object, a slip of paper appears through the gap. No, not paper. A card. Plain white, crisp black text, an embossed logo. A business card.

"If you ever change your mind, my home will always be open to you." Admittedly, Vergil doesn't have much hope that she will.

At least until her fingers brush his.

And she takes the card from him.


	2. Jamais Vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lie and sit in solemn lines, drinking gin and dropping limes.  
> Wasting beats of this heart of mine, until the morning comes around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been in the works for a very long time, something I typed a sentence here and there for over the past few months before I hiatus'd. Maybe the original intent got away from me since then, but I think I salvaged this ok? At least the groundwork has been laid and I can start writing the SOFT PUNCHY/VERGIL content I didn't know I desperately needed.
> 
> I can't say this is the most indulgent series I have in the works now, because there's now a Judgment AU and a gotdamn pirate AU for Punchy now too, but I guess this was the progenitor? The OG. The source of all my AU woes.
> 
> I hope you like it. 😔💖🙏

> **Jamais vu** ⁽ⁿᵒᵘⁿ⁾
> 
> 1) A disorder of memory characterized by the illusion that the familiar is being encountered for the first time
> 
> **2) The experience of being unfamiliar with a person or situation that is actually very familiar  
>   
> **

* * *

  
In a heartbeat, something as vapid as the blink of an eye, her entire life changed.

Everything is different.

It isn't as though she simply popped into existence in this new Red Grave; she _has_ a home, has legal documents, had an actual life before her actions in the past - past? Her past? This past? It gets confusing if she thinks about it too long - dropped her here. With a set of memories belonging to both a time and place that don't belong in this new era of peace, Myra is a chess piece on a checkers board - a good fit at a first glance, but the odd man out when placed among the other pieces. She doesn't belong _here_ , in this shitty apartment that's clearly been broken into on several counts; _here_ surrounded by a city of strangers; _here_ away from Gilbert.

𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝.

𝐒𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞.

Grendel had told her as much, yet she'd acted anyway, heeding instinct over logic. Perhaps more than the upheaval of an entire crime syndicate - the one she was in the middle of before she wound up _here_ \- Myra feels she understands the meaning behind actions having consequences _here_ more than anywhere, any time and any place else.

But too little, too late.

What else is there to do but to adapt? What other choice does she have but to move forward, toward a horizon unmarred by the scars of the Qliphoth?

There wasn't much to actually do on her end to pick up the pieces of her life; something that is supposed to be wholly her own, but feels so unfamiliar and displaced. Almost as if she's planting herself into somebody else's life. She supposes she is, in a way - she has no idea who _this_ Myra Stathis was, but sifting through her own apartment, she's given glimpses into the daily ins and outs of the woman she has no other choice but to be:

She has a job (but it doesn't pay nearly as well).

Her parents are still together (but she doesn't answer their calls. Ever).

She apparently still works out (but is a lightweight. How disappointing).

She has a motorcycle (but it's on its last legs).

She still smokes (but can't hope to afford her usual brand anymore).

She hates her neighbours (but she would anyway).

And perhaps most surprising of all: she has friends.

Well, maybe not for long. Whoever Myra Stathis was in this timeline is gone, replaced now with someone who used to bust heads for a living, and sat down for steak au poivre every other day. She was hated by those who opposed her, and feared by those beneath her - having people who genuinely want to include her in their social spaces just doesn't feel right.

The woman she is right now vastly prefers the solitude anyway. Always has.

So the musty, cramped apartment she lives in now is something she'll get used to. So are the microwave dinners and hastily thrown together meals over a ceramic stove that's stained and yellowed with age. This new life of hers isn't particularly glamorous, quite frankly it isn't particularly _anything,_ but on the other hand, at least she doesn't come home most nights with blood on her clothes anymore.

So this is fine.

Really.

Yet there's a feeling she can't seem to shake.

Is it a feeling?

It _was_ at one stage, perhaps. An ache, an unrest, a heavy lump in the pit of her stomach. It faded over time, more and more until she couldn't really feel anything.

Nothing at all.

But she continues forward regardless, living, but not really alive in the way she is used to. It's much more passive now, more reactionary than anything, so maybe it's the banality of living a civilian life that makes the passage of time so difficult for her to keep track of. Has it been weeks? Months? It's all the same to her now; the sun goes up, and comes back down again. She measures time by what days she works, and what days she doesn't. And then she sleeps, awakens, and does it all over again. It's static, numbing, and oddly enough for somebody in her previous line of work, dehumanizing. The more days she works and then doesn't work, the more resigned she becomes. It's an infuriating conflict that she just can't come to terms with, two opposing statements that are forced to coexist and that _she_ is forced to coexist _with_ :

Her new life _here_ will not change.

And:

Nothing is the same.  
  


* * *

  
Today was another day of work. Tomorrow won't be. But the day after, will. That's as far ahead as Myra ever thinks anymore. The club where she works - a rather upscale place for a seedy corner of the city - is friendly enough. The people there aren't bad. Not anybody she'd want to see outside of work, but she cares just enough to wait until the other staff (women, mostly) get into their cars before she leaves herself.

But well, what sort of bouncer would she be otherwise?

She sits on her motorcycle and waits, nodding, and sometimes lifting her hand to wave as one by one, the cars pull out of the parking lot. it's surprisingly dark after they all do. With no headlights casting their twin beams across the vacant yard, with all the lights in the building next door off until 9pm the following night, darkness blankets the parking lot like a shroud. She waits in it for a while, not really doing anything, just sits straddling her bike with nothing but thoughts and dark to keep her company. She's not in any rush to go home, even though she's exhausted. Going back to a monophasic sleep pattern after so long is hard, and everything, from the sounds to the smells of her apartment is all off. Wrong. She's in no rush at all.

Which means it's going to be one _those_ melancholy nights again.

She should've grabbed a bottle or two of gin on her way out of the club. Beer just doesn't cut it for nights like this. Unfortunately, like most things, it will have to do. Breathing out a soundless sigh, Myra kicks up the stand on her bike and starts it up.

She's just a few blocks from home when her tired old motorcycle finally gives up at an intersection. There are no other cars on the road. Not at this time of night, when the sun will be rising in just a few short hours. Should she bother calling someone out here? Is there a point? It would probably cost more to tow home and to fix than it would just buying a new one.

But can she afford a new bike right now?

When was the last time she had to be conscious of her spending?

Should she report it as stolen and claim the insurance?

Fuckingshitstupidfuckshit _fuck_ –

A metallic thunk echoes down the empty street when Myra gets off her bike and lets it tip right over, fed up with a slew of questions she doesn't want to think about, and feeling, for the first time in a _long_ time, a swell of emotion within her that feels so completely foreign now, that it overwhelms her to the point of fear.

She doesn't want to deal with that either.

Not the bike.

Not the apathy.

None of it.

So she leaves her bike in the middle of the road, lying lonely, right at the intersection, and heads into the park across the street. Her walking is aimless, listless, with no destination in mind. She simply wanders through winding paths, past an open garden, and past trees that are backlit by distant streetlights. They cast an orange glow over the far too familiar playground she finds herself in, filtering through sparse branches, mimicking with a great irony, the licking flames of _that day_. But there is no sweltering heat today. No demons. No lost child to guide back home. The swings and brightly coloured roundabout all lie perfectly still, not bothered even by the wind; it is empty and it is silent here. At least for now. And so Myra sits at a bench overlooking the play area, expression blank, fishing around in the pockets of her parker for her cigarettes. The packet is worn and crumpled, nearly empty save for one last stick.

And thank fuck for that.

Holding the cigarette between her teeth, she pats around for her lighter, clicking her tongue when she finds it isn't in its usual place. Frustration mounts with each blind pat that turns up empty, her nose wrinkling, until finally, she feels a bulge in one of the pockets. She already knows it isn't her lighter when she pinches it between two of her fingers, but she withdraws it anyway, if only to throw whatever it is away. A wadded up ball of white is what comes out. Paper of some kind, she supposes, which in itself is odd when she normally isn't the type to keep notes on her.

Unfurling it, however, she goes lax, the cigarette in her mouth drooping, hanging precariously.

In her hand is the business card Vergil handed her before she shut the door on him however many weeks ago now. And she never bothered to take him up on his offer. Never really saw the need. Never _felt_ the need. She laughs to herself, a soft, weak sound, devoid of any emphasis. It's bitter, for lack of anything else, and becoming of someone sitting alone on a park bench at four in the morning. Myra flicks it out of her hand, not caring for where it lands, and returns to her search for her lighter.

She feels better when the stick in her mouth is lit. It doesn't have nearly as smooth or soothing a flavour as her Black Russians - she simply just can't afford those anymore - but for a cheap alternative, these will do. She sits in complete silence as she puffs and then blows out smoke and then puffs again, embracing the blissful silence in her mind as the cigarette burns. It's the only way she really knows peace anymore. Cheap beer just doesn't provide the same hit as cheap tobacco does, doesn't give those fleeting memories of a life she no longer has.

Her cigarette is half burned when she feels something pad at her shoe, and she's so lax, so listless, that instead of defensive - a frustration borne from being snuck up on (ugh, how careless) - all she does is tilt her head down.

At her feet, making something in her chest twinge fiercely in a deep bitterness, is a dog. Maybe only two months old? She's never been a good judge of that sort of thing. But it's small. A motley grey with a strip of white between its eyes. Far too familiar to be comfortable. Far too cruel to be a coincidence. It makes her think of a similar grey hulking mass, curled up on her terrace, basking in the warmth of the golden morning sun. Maybe hearing the phantom sounds of her approach, it turns its large head toward her, but just before their eyes meet, Myra dislodges the memory into the breeze with a little jerk of her foot, half intending to shoo this laughable imitation away. It does shrink back, cautious of the sudden movement, but it returns a second later, tail wagging.

"What do you want?" Her usual greeting, her sharp tone whenever someone approaches her is normally enough to have people rethink their position, but to a puppy who doesn't yet understand things like intonation and subtext, it merely hears engagement. And any is better than none. "I don't have anything for you."

It tilts its head at her, from side to side in that maddeningly endearing way that dogs do, ears flopping with each turn of its head. And that's what makes her fold, sighing and exhaling another lungful of smoke.

"Little young to be out on your own, aren't you? Where's your mother?"

No answer. Just another head tilt. What was she expecting?

"What then, you lost?" Lifting a hand, Myra removes the cigarette from her mouth, holds it away from the tiny thing in front of her and dumps off the buildup of grey ash. But rather than returning it to her mouth, she lets it dangle between her fingers for just a bit longer, eyes transfixed on the way the end glows a bright orange. She used to burn that brightly too; someone who once had clear motives and ambition. Something to fight for. Towards. And now here she is, on a park bench at an ungodly hour of the morning, talking to an animal. "...yeah, me too."

The admission comes rather easily, only because the creature she's talking to doesn't understand, and, more importantly, can't talk back.

Or maybe not.

She hears a growl and a bark, the playful kind, higher pitched and quiet, even in the complete silence of an empty park where even a pin drop would be stark and harsh. When she turns to look, Myra balks, because getting nudged up against her shoe with a stubby snout is that wadded up business card she'd thrown away.

"Fucking hell, did _he_ send you?"

A rhetorical question at best when the other party can't respond…

...in english.

It barks again in reply, with enough enthusiasm that its whole body jerks forward, and Myra responds with a sharp, annoyed click of her tongue. But maybe this is the excuse she's looking for; the guiding hand at her back to push her towards the man she is loath to see, yet hates that she is nostalgic for. Yet more conflicting statements that swirl around in her head and chest and leave her with nothing but an overwhelming numb.

She leans forward and scoops the puppy up with one hand secured beneath its stomach, lingers a bit, staring at the card by her shoe… and then with two fingers, picks that up too. With a few firm presses into the expanse of seating beside her, Myra puts her cigarette out and flicks the remainder away, holding the puppy close to her chest with one hand while she digs around in her pockets for her cell phone with the other.

She realises she doesn't really know what she can say to him after so long, or whether now - three in the morning - is the right time, but she delegates those problems to the Myra one minute from now. The printing has faded over time, the ink thoroughly cracked where the card's been scrunched and creased, but she still manages to make out the number. Which she dials. And then hesitates. Clutched to her chest - nothing more than an easier position to hold a small animal with one hand - the puppy squirms, paws at her arm, tries to bite the sleeve of her parka, and utilising that distraction, while she adjusts the hold she has on it, she sends the call.

It goes straight to a message bank. Hardly surprising at this time of night, but automated message or not, she closes her eyes at the sound of his voice.

"It's me," she says, after a long pause. She doesn't give her name, doesn't provide any context. If it matters to him at all, he'll remember. And if not, well, then there's one concern banished. "I… if you still want to talk, you know where to find me."

It isn't the most informative message ever, but it _is_ like her - perhaps one of the few things to be so in this timeline - and so she's content to leave it at that. But her cell phone is barely tucked back into her pocket before it rings, vibrating right there in her hand, the screen alight and showing the number she only just dialled. It's out of spite more than anything, for the anxious feeling in her gut that he's returning her call (and _so soon_ , at that), that has her answer it, holding the phone up to her ear, but otherwise saying nothing, once again letting that be the problem of the Myra in one minute's time. Maybe letting _him_ start the conversation, maybe just answering his questions will get the gears in her head turning again, shaking off a month of rust.

"Is everything alright?"

Why is he asking her that? Why does that have to be the first thing she hears him say after a whole month of silence? This would be so much easier if he were the same.

But if he were, then she wouldn't be here. Neither would this part of the city. Neither would any of this.

"I'm fine," her tone is bland enough that it sounds convincing, "I guess I woke you." Like so many things, the apology is implied.

"No." Vergil is quick to correct her, and she can't hear any lingering traces of fatigue in his voice. "I don't require much sleep. Several hours here and there is enough."

"Right."

A long pause.

"Is everything alright?" He tries again.

"Yes." The lie tastes bitter in her mouth; surprisingly, it's the very first one she's ever told him. Even back home… "Just figured I'd take you up on your offer. I have time if you do."

There's no hesitation in his voice, no lapse within which he mulls it over; his response is immediate. "Where are you?"

Myra looks back up at the playground, gloomy and actually a little off putting at this time of night with its uneven silhouettes. She stares at a particular spot, empty now and paved over with soft rubber, where a little boy once lay, curled into himself and crying.

"Where we met."

"I'll be there soon."  
  


* * *

  
It's only minutes later that a smudge of bright blue streaks through the dark sky above, an unnatural and menacing sight normally, but not in this timeline, where demons and hybrids are accepted instead of tolerated. Regal wings spread wide in a dramatic flair before Vergil lets himself succumb to gravity, and by the time he lands, he's already human again. The two don't exchange words just yet. Not even glances, since Myra seems adamant in looking anywhere but him, so Vergil wordlessly approaches the bench, stands for a while. And then sits.

A little too close for it to have been on accident, but Myra doesn't slide away either.

For a moment, only a minute in reality, but stretching infinitely from Myra's perspective, there is silence, comfortable perhaps for Vergil, but it makes her uneasy. So to break the ice, he regards, with a gentle smile, the little ball of grey she's holding to her body, tucked comfortably in the crook of one arm.

"I see you're still in the habit of picking up strays." There's a hint of amusement in his voice, but something wistful too.

She tilts her head down at the puppy against her, sleeping soundly, one paw twitching intermittently. "If something's fallen at my feet–"

"'The least I can do is pick it up'." Vergil finishes for her, fond. He lets that sit for a short while, lets the chirp of crickets usher in a new topic with their lonely song. "Why did you do it?"

Myra knows what he means, but playing ignorant is easier. "What, the dog?"

"Me. On that day."

She draws in a long breath, and Vergil hears the bench beneath them creak as she shifts, raising the still sleeping puppy up in front of her in both hands, a surprisingly gentle gesture when he remembers so vividly what those same hands did to demons long ago. With her eyes fixed on the snoozing creature in front of her, she replies plainly, as if it's the most logical thing in the world. As if it, alone, is _enough_ :

"You deserved better." That held breath is then expelled. "Where I came from, the Vergil I had the misfortune of knowing didn't grow up with the opportunities you had. He was alone, apparently. For a long time. Apparently." She doesn't know the full story herself, she realises; only fragmented, disjointed pieces of an equally fragmented life from someone who had killed his brother twice. And attempted a third time.

But that alone was enough of a reason.

"It put him on a path he wasn't proud of, and he tried to make it right. But that doesn't bring back countless dead. I've done things people wouldn't normally be proud of too - sometimes I think that's what kept us…" she trails off then, the words slipping away until she shakes her head, and lets them disappear. "The bottom line is that what you have now is better for you, and if what you're _really_ asking is whether I regret doing what I did, then the answer is no. You come from my line of work, you learn not to deal in regrets. That's what gets you killed."

"And what did you do?"

For the first time since he arrived, since she arrived in this city, she faces him. Looks upon a visage that is so disgustingly familiar, yet bears its own unique qualities from a life unmarred by isolation and a ridiculous, stupid-as-fuck misguided ambition; Vergil's hair is looser, several stray locks hanging over his forehead; eyes a darker, deeper colour than the grey storm she remembers; his very being, his aura, his demeanour… it all feels youthful. At peace.

Maybe that's just what happens when you live a full life.

"I was the right hand of Gilbert Howle."

Whatever he may have been expecting her answer to be, it certainly isn't that. Vergil's eyes widen as he blinks in surprise. " _You_?"

The anger, comfortably familiar, comes back with a swift ease, wrinkling the bridge of her nose into almost a snarl, her voice deepening, sounding coarser. "Something wrong with that?"

"A little," he admits, unphased but not callous, "I sensed you were in a dangerous line of work - not many humans have the privilege of owning a Devil Arm, and fewer still earn the honour of using them, but I didn't expect… no, I suppose that doesn't matter. Were you and I–" Vergil stops there, reconsiders, rephrases, "how did you and I come to know one another? You speak of me… _him_ , with animosity, and yet you're here."

Tucking the puppy securely against her again, Myra heaves a sigh. "That's a long story, and I'm out of smokes. Help me get my bike home, and I'll fill you in."

"You won't go back on your word?" Vergil knows the question is a mistake as soon as the words leave his mouth - the look she shoots him is fatal for all of a second before it dissipates just as suddenly. Her beef isn't with him. That may be the most difficult hurdle for her to cross.

"You called me out on being a shitty liar when you were eight, _you_ tell _me_ if I plan on going against what I say."

He laughs briefly, a curt but jovial sound that he cuts off before its time; he isn't here to rouse her anger. But he does take this opportunity to get a good look at her, disguising it as study of her expression in order to discern truth from lie. She really hasn't changed at all from the woman who existed in his memory. The image he always held in his mind became blurry against his will over time, always obscured by a flare of fire or shadow, but it all comes rushing back when he looks at her now; uneven freckles across her nose; two facial scars he would delight in hearing the origins of, perhaps even to touch if she would let him (he doesn't think she would); but it's her eyes that hold his attention. She looks as though she hasn't slept properly in weeks, but that does little to dull their colour. Their ferocity.

Whatever their relationship may have been in her past, Vergil at least, thinks he understands what his counterpart may have thought of her. If she looked at _him_ with even half the intensity she's directing towards Vergil now, all heat and flame, then Vergil can say two things for certain:

His alternate self never stood a chance.

And:

He was lucky.

"Come on, Hulk." she muses to the sleeping puppy, a name that means nothing to Vergil, but feels far too specific to be something she simply came up with on the fly. He tucks that away in his memory to ask about later too.  
  


* * *

  
In a heartbeat, something as vapid as the blink of an eye, her entire life changed.

But not everything needs to be different.


End file.
